


Filthy Creature Finger-Banging My Heart

by convolutedConcussion



Series: Wandering [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Dubious Consent, Emotional Abuse, F/F, I mean I guess it's dub-con, Rough Sex, Writer Is A Sick Fuck, mild physical abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The interim is a little hazy but there's something about the first time she hits you that makes sex the natural next step.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Sequel to "You've Had A Good Run (I'm Sure She Enjoyed You)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filthy Creature Finger-Banging My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Uhm, okay. I've never actually had to _do_ this before but...
> 
> This story contains, if you hadn't gleaned such, themes of dubious consent, physical abuse, and mental abuse.
> 
> Basically, this is a story about one person's personal dam on her frustrations shattering. Or at least I like to tell myself that.

It's all going according to plan, really. You realize this when she lets you stroke gentle fingers--calloused, string-worn, like hers, but gentle--through her hair as the two of you take in some post-coital television. You weren't surprised by how easily she'd given in. For all her protesting over the phone, she never leaves _anyone._ Why should you be special?

\---

Turbulence wakes you. Resenting being roused from such a peaceful dream, you glare about you. Your view is limited, squashed between an overweight midwestern mother and her equally obese spawn, you find it difficult to peer around them. You wonder briefly what a picture you must have presented, slumbering as you did in the middle of such companions, slight as you are. With a huff, mostly affected, you straighten your seat as you try to figure out--c'mon, Lalonde, context clues, check trays or something--just how close you are to home.

The sea lion to your left shifts with a grunt and--

\--And did you just refer to a woman as a sea lion?

Perhaps spending so much time in the same house as your brother has affected you. With a frown, you shake the thought away, turning your musings to more pleasant prospects. After all, Kanaya would welcome you with open arms because that's what she always does. It will be as if your time of exile had never happened.

It isn't too long before the pilot sounds over the plane's mediocre intercom system that they'll be landing in little over twenty minutes if everything goes according to plan. You find you rather approve this particular pilot's sense of humour. It's a bit dark. You recall his first appearance over the soundwaves, "Let's see if we can get this bird off the ground. Let's get that done, before we start worrying about the actual _flight,_ okay, people?"

Of course, it didn't encourage any sort of trust or security. Maybe that's what you like. It's oddly honest.

The next quarter of an hour feels like it takes an eternity. The wriggler to your right begins to stir restlessly, and whimper for its guardian and something about it makes you nauseous.

Your descent begins sharply with a growled, "Hope the wheels lower."

You're not 100% sure your heart leaps because of his tone.

Kanaya isn't there to pick you up and that is... unexpected. Her calming presence makes you feel clean after long, horrible flights. Frowning, you hail a cab. The person driving is--you realize after about five successive double-takes--is a woman wearing ridiculous bright red sunglasses. She drives much more recklessly than the others on the road--quite the feat, you've got to admit--and seems to be making an obscene amount of turns. She parks with the taxi half-mounted on the sidewalk in front of your apartment building. Feeling a little dazed and more than a little unsettled, you pay her and you ignore her comment about how she bets you taste like peppermint and sadness because that's just strange by any standards and is probably linked to some sort of mental disease. You pass through the lobby, nodding curtly a woman checking her mailbox who is staring open-mouthed at the cab from which you emerged.

The clean elevator takes you to the top floor, where your (Kanaya's, technically, considering you moved in with her three years ago) apartment is. There is no hesitation in your steps, you open the door surely, unperturbed by the--oddly--engaged lock. She's hunched in the wide living room over her sewing machine when you walk in and only looks a little upset to see you.

"This is where you greet me, love," you remind her gently with a smirk.

"You should get your things and go," she returns, looking dazed and sounding perplexed. "I have work to do."

You roll your eyes and drop your duffel on the couch. You think she flinches. "I live here, too."

"What are you doing here?"

You frown. "I have decided it's ludicrous to throw away six years," you reply. Then, after a pause, "Seven, if you count the year before all that when we only fucked around when you were drunk."

"Do not be crass, Rose, it hardly suits you," she says quietly, becoming very cold.

"But then you _wouldn't_ count that year, would you?" you go on, ignoring her. You're not entirely sure why you're feeling so very mean suddenly, but the comment slips out so easily.

She stands slowly. "This is quite unattractive. Whatever it is you are trying to do, you are failing miserably," she informs you, looking unimpressed. "You have been gone for quite some time and I have used that time to think and what I have decided is that I am perfectly fine with throwing away six years after all that we have been through because, though Vriska certainly was the straw that broke the camel's back, she was not the bulk of our problems, as you are well aware."

Slowly, you blink and say, "Terribly sorry, dear, you were rambling."

It takes you a few seconds to realize that she actually _hits_ you. Open-handed, she slaps you, hard, across the face. You lift a surprisingly steady hand to your jaw, feel that the flesh there is hot and beginning to raise.

\---

The interim is a little hazy but there's something about the first time she hits you that makes sex the natural next step. You're pretty sure that's unhealthy--you know that's unhealthy, you've had training in this, Lalonde--but you can't help it. You just sort of realize she's eating at your mouth roughly, tugging your head back by your hair, and pushing you to the bedroom. You cling to her, pulling her down onto the bed, but she growls something against your lips. Then her hands are on your wrists, pushing them up above your head. With a wicked smile, you fight a little against her but you still when she bites your lower lip, hard.

Your clothes are off quickly but you can't help notice she doesn't undress herself. You frown, reaching down to tug at her shirt, but she shakes her head seriously. With a harder grip than strictly necessary, she pushes your arms back up. "Stay, Rose," she commands.

Breathing heavily, you frown and wriggle but keep your arms up. You feel weirdly vulnerable in a way you've never felt with her before, with her bending over you, pushing your legs apart, dragging her long nails down the insides of your thighs. You twitch, aching to close your legs, to buck your hips up, to do anything. You bite your lip, giving a breathy and not entirely affected moan. "Don't," you gasp out as she does it again. This time, she does it hard enough to leave thick, blood-warm welts along your pale flesh.

"God, anything gets you off," she marvels, the blaspheme sounding strange and forbidden on her lips. She looks up, jade eyes locking yours. "I never noticed what a slut you really are. I mean, there have always been _signs,_ but, honestly, _this?_ " You hear your own breath hitch a little. With a predatory look in her eye, Kanaya lowers over you, teeth sinking into a nipple as her long fingers push hard and dry into you.

The sob is ripped from your chest. You gasp and cry out when she starts thrusting her fingers rhythmically, manicured nails like talons within you. She curls them and you feel the pleas bubble up behind your pursed lips but all that escapes is a low, harsh groan, somewhere between pleasure and pain. It's not fair because it hurts so very badly, sharp claws unforgiving inside you at an unrelenting speed, but just when the scale tips to _toomuchpainohgodstopjuststop_ there's a tongue soothing a bite, or a brush against that spot just beneath your jaw and you're melting into the unstoppable push-pull once again. Her teeth migrate, sharp and hard enough to bruise your tender flesh, surely marring you. There's an odd sort of surge within you, all heat and lust at being _marked_ so.

The third finger makes you scream. She slows her movements as she sucks big, dark bruises on your neck. This goes on for hours--days, you think--or perhaps just minutes. After an eternity of that aching pace, of being fucked right on the line between violence and tenderness, you feel your hands coming down to rest on her head, your fingers tangling in her hair. At that, she rips away, pulling her fingers out quick enough to make you wince and whimper. With cold eyes and harsh actions, she pins your wrists back up above your head with one hand, allowing her grip to be just this side of too hard. She watches you for a moment, gasping and wriggling, trying to push up against her. She holds herself just far enough away, her warm body offering no friction where you need it most.

She gives a derisive snort and without preamble pushes back into you.

This pace is slower than the first, but no less punishing. Every thrust of her fingers is punctuated, on your end, by small, hiccuping gasps. The gaze that used to always be upon you with such love and gentleness is now hard and heavy, accusing you and demanding that you be held accountable. That could just be your own projection, though.

Your climax rolls over you and tears slide out of the corners of your eyes into your hair. She keeps fingering you until your hips jerk against her movements and you try to wriggle out of her grasp. When she lets you go, she removes herself completely from you. She sits on the edge of the bed, back to you, as you sit up and rub your wrists. Every movement seems to hurt but you crawl towards her on the bed, one hand slipping around her slim waist to--

"No, Rose," she says, eerily calm as she stands. Her head dips as she turns to face you, then you're faced with a pained glare. "No, I do not want you to touch me."

\---

She works without speaking to you for the rest of the day. You shower alone and there is the distinct possibility that a few tears drip down your cheeks--a purely physiological response to hot water stinging the welts on the insides of your thighs.

That night, she sleeps on the couch while you curl in the middle of your bed. It's large and soft with elegant--useless, but elegant--hangings and it smells like her. You half-expect (you must admit you half-hope) that she'll join you at some point in the night, push you to your side as she used to do, and curl her long body around yours but she doesn't. You wake alone and bruised and rolling out of bed sends a deep twinge through you and you become aware of the dull ache between your legs.

You must be sick, because that ache only makes you want more.

**Author's Note:**

> I need to apologize for this. And I need to say that there is no part of me that condones partner abuse. It happens, though, and it happened here. I guess.
> 
> Also, the title comes from "Love Me Dead" by Ludo.
> 
> PS This whole series is secretly about how all these people are living really, really unfulfilled and dysfunctional lives. Oops.


End file.
